Season of Berries
by hedaslut
Summary: Clarke Griffin is going to fulfill her grandma's dying wish - to find the boy she loved and give him her letter. Beacon, Maine, is the last place she wants to go. And worse, she ends up the talk of the town when a tumble into the ocean introduces her to Bellamy Blake, the carpenter who saves her life. Luckily, he happens to be the nephew of her grandma's lost love. BELLARKE


"Don't move, it's not safe!"

She heard someone yell, but it was too late. The wooden planks of the dock sagged beneath her and then gave way. Boards splintered, rotted lumber snapped, and she plunged ten feet into the frigid Maine ocean.

Maybe there was a second when she could have seen the man running onto the dock, calling out for her to stop. If she had just turned twenty degrees to her right she would have noticed him racing across the beach toward the pier, waving his arms. But Clarke had the viewfinder of her Nikon camera pressed against her eye and was zooming in on something across the water—a statue of a woman in a ruffled dress holding what appeared to be a bucket of grapes.

As she fought her way to the surface, her arms and legs scrambling, her heart banging in her chest, and her teeth chattering from the cold water, Clarke knew she was moving and moving fast. A strong, swift current was spinning her around and pulling her away from the dock. She came to the surface coughing, the sea around her choppy, foamy, full of sand.

And she was still moving, heading away from the dock and the beach, waves hitting her, filling her mouth and nose with salt water. Her arms and legs began to go numb and she couldn't stop shaking. How could the ocean be so cold at the end of June?

Clarke tried to swim against the current, giving the Australian crawl her best effort, kicking as hard as she could and pushing the water away until her limbs ached. She was going into deeper water, the current still moving fast.

 _You used to be a good swimmer when you were at Exeter_ , Clarke tried to remind herself. _You can swim to shore_. The little voice in her head was trying to sound confident, but it wasn't working.

Panic raced to the ends of her fingers and toes. Something had happened in all those intervening years. Too much time spent running around hospital, dealing with brief patients and other, not spent practicing the butterfly stroke.

Suddenly the current that had grabbed her stopped moving.

Clarke was surrounded by mounds of black water and foamy whitecaps. In front of her lay the open ocean, dark and infinite. She turned, and for a moment Clarke couldn't see anything but more hills of water. Then she bobbed up to the crest of a wave and the dock and beach appeared, far away and tiny. She began the crawl again, aiming toward shore—breathing, stroking, breathing, stroking.

It was tough going and her legs felt so heavy. They didn't want to kick any longer. They were just too tired.

She stopped and began to tread water, her arms so exhausted she wanted to cry. She felt a searing pain in her chin, and when she touched her face there was blood on her fingers. Something had cut her, probably during the fall.

The fall. Clarke didn't even know how it happened. She had only wanted to see the town from the water, the way her grandmother must have seen it when she was growing up here in the 1940s. She had walked across the beach, opened a gate, and stepped onto the dock. Some of the boards were missing and a few of the handrails were gone, but everything seemed fine until she stepped on a plank that felt a little too soft. She could almost feel herself free-falling again.

A wave slapped her face and she swallowed a mouthful of water.

Clarke felt the Nikon twist and turn against herself and realized it was still around her neck, like a stone dragging her down. The camera would never work again. She knew that. With her hand shaking, she lifted the camera's neck strap over her head.

A memory of her last birthday flashed through her mind—dinner at the May Fair in London, her fiancé, Finn Collins, handing her a box wrapped in silver paper and a card that said, "Happy thirty-fifth, Clarke—I hope this will do justice to your amazing talent."

Inside the box was the Nikon.

She opened it and let the strap slip through her fingers. Clarke watched the camera drift into blackness and felt her heart break when she imagined it at the bottom of the ocean.

And then she started to think that she wasn't going to make it back.

That she was just too cold and too tired. Closing her eyes, Clarke let the blackness envelop her. She heard the swooshing sound of the ocean all around her. She thought about her mother and how terrible it would be never to see her again. How would she cope with two deaths barely a week apart—first her grandmother and then her?

She thought about Finn and how she had assured him before leaving this morning that she would be in Beacon for only one night, two at the most. And how he had asked her to wait a week so he could go with her.

She had said _no, it was going to be a quick trip. No big deal. It's Tuesday, she had said. I'll be back in Manhattan tomorrow_. And now, just three months before their wedding, he would find out that she wasn't coming back.

Clarke could feel herself letting go, letting the water take her, and it felt calm, so peaceful. An image of her grandmother standing in her rose garden, holding a pair of pruning shears, fluttered through her mind. She was smiling at Clarke.

Startled, she opened her eyes. Across the dark hills of drifting water she could see the dock and there was something—no, someone—at the end of it. Clarke watched as a man dove off into the water. He surfaced and began to do a fast crawl, coming in her direction. She could see his arms shooting out of the waves.

 _He's coming for me_ , she thought. _Thank God, he's coming for me. Someone else is out here and he's going to help me_. A tiny place inside her chest began to feel warm. She forced her legs to kick a little harder and her muscles began to come alive again.

Clarke put her arm out, trying to signal so he could see her.

She watched as he came closer, her teeth chattering so hard she could barely breathe. She didn't think she'd ever seen such a powerful swimmer. He treated the waves as though they were afterthoughts.

Finally he was close enough for Clarke to hear him. "Hang on," he yelled, his breathing hard, his face red, his hair dark and slicked back by the water. By the time he reached her, her legs had given out and she was floating on her back.

"I'll get you in," he said. He took a couple of breaths. "Just do as I say and don't hang on to me or we'll both go down."

She knew better than to grab onto him, although she had never realized how easily a drowning person could make that mistake.

Clarke nodded to let him know she understood, and they faced one another, treading water. She looked at him and all she could see were his eyes.

He had chocolate eyes—light brown, reminding her of chestnuts in spring days.

And then all of a sudden, despite her exhaustion, she felt overcome with embarrassment. She'd never been good at accepting help from people, and, through some strange rule of inverse proportion, the more extreme the situation the more embarrassing it was for Clarke to accept assistance.

Her mother, Abby, would say it was that old Yankee stock they came from. Finn would say it was just foolish pride.

All she knew was that at that moment she felt like an idiot.

A damsel in distress crashing through a dock, getting swept away, unable to get back to shore, unable to take care of herself.

"I can... swim back," Clarke said, her lips trembling as a wave splashed her face. "Swim beside you," she added, her legs feeling like cinder blocks.

The man shook his head. "No. Not a good idea. Rip currents."

"I was... on the swim team," She managed to say as they rose with a swell. Her voice was getting raspy. "Prep school." She coughed.

"Exeter. We made it... to the nationals."

He was so close his arm brushed the top of her leg. "I'll do the swimming right now." He took a few deep breaths. "You do as I say. My name is Bellamy."

"I'm Clarke," She gasped.

"Clarke, put your hands on my shoulders."

He had broad shoulders. The kind of shoulders that looked like they came from working, not working out. He squinted as he watched her.

No, I'm not doing this, she thought as she continued to drive her numb hands through the water. I'll go in on my own. Now that I know someone's near me I can make it.

"Thanks," she said, "but I'll be okay if I just—"

"Put your hands on my shoulders," he demanded, raising his voice.

This time it wasn't an option.

She put her hands on his shoulders.

"Now lie back. Keep your arms straight. Spread your legs and stay that way. I'll do the swimming."

Clarke knew of this maneuver, the tired swimmer's carry, but she'd never been the tired swimmer.

She leaned back, her hair fanning out around her. She felt a spot of tepid sunshine on her face. They bobbed with the waves, their bodies suspended as they floated up and over the crests.

Bellamy positioned himself on top of her and Clarke hooked her legs around his hips as he instructed. He began to do a heads-up breast stroke, and they were buoyant.

She started to relax as she let herself be carried. Her head was pressed against his chest. She closed her eyes and felt the muscles contracting under his shirt with each stroke. His legs were long and powerful, kicking like outboard engines in between her legs.

His skin smelled of salt and seaweed.

She heard each stroke that cut through the water and she felt the warmth of his body.

Clarke opened her eyes and saw that they were moving parallel to the shore. She realized what had happened. She'd been pulled out by a rip current and in her panic had failed to realize it.

And because of that she failed to heed the most important rule of rip currents—don't try to swim against them; swim parallel to the shore until you've gone around them, and then swim in.

Soon they turned and began heading for the beach. She caught a glimpse of some people standing on the shore.

They were almost there, she thought, overwhelmed with relief. She couldn't wait to feel the ground under her feet, to know she had stopped drifting through darkness.

Once the water was shallow enough for Bellamy to stand, he picked Clarke up and steadied her, his arms around her back. He was breathing hard.

From where her head rested against his chest she could tell he had to be at least six foot two, a good eight inches taller than her.

"You'll be able to stand here," he whispered, drops of water falling from his hair.

She pushed away gently, taking his hands when he offered them. Clarke put her feet down and stood in the chest-high water. It felt like heaven to touch the sand, to be anchored again to solid ground.

Behind her, the ocean swirled and dipped into darkness, but just steps ahead of her, the beach sparkled like a new promise under the late day sun. Clarke felt her muscles relax and, for a moment, she didn't feel the cold.

She felt only the thrill of connection to the world around her. _I'm still here_ , she thought. _I'm safe. I'm alive_.

A giddy feeling began to swell inside her and she started to laugh.

Letting go of Bellamy's hands, she began to twirl, a dizzy ballerina in the water. She laughed and turned and waved her arms, Bellamy watching with a startled expression.

She wondered if he thought she had lost her mind. It didn't matter if he did. She had come from the emptiness of open water back to firm ground and there was nothing in the whole world that felt as good as that one moment.

She stepped closer to Bellamy and looked into his eyes. Then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. A kiss for saving her life, a kiss that came from some place she didn't know existed. And he kissed back.

His warm lips tasted like the sea, his arms, strong and sure, held her tight as if they might both be drowning.

Clarke wanted nothing more than to collapse into that embrace. And then she realized what she'd done and quickly pulled away.

"I'm sorry," She gasped, aware suddenly of all the people looking on.

"I've... I've got to go." She turned and began to stride through the water as fast as she could toward the beach. She was shivering, her clothes sodden, her eyes stinging from the salt, and the embarrassment she'd felt a few moments before was nothing compared to this.

Clarke didn't know what had come over her, what had possessed her to kiss him.

"Clarke, wait a minute," Bellamy called as he caught up.

He tried to grab her hand, but she moved out of his reach and kept pushing and pushing through the water. _Pretend it never happened,_ Clarke thought. It never happened. Two men in blue jeans raced toward them from the beach. One of them wore a yellow T-shirt. The other had a Red Sox baseball cap on his head and a tool belt around his waist, with a level that flapped back and forth as he ran into the water.

"Bellamy, are you okay? Is she okay?" the man with the yellow T-shirt asked as he helped her toward the beach.

"I think she's okay," Bellamy said as he trudged from the water, his blue jeans stuck to his legs.

The Red Sox man put his arm around Clarke and helped her onto the sand. "You all right, miss?"

She tried to nod, but was shaking so hard she didn't think her head moved at all.

"Cold," she grunted, her teeth chattering.

A burly man with a beard and a buzz cut came toward her. He wore a tool belt and carried a brown leather jacket. He placed the jacket over her shoulders and zipped it up the front. It had a lining that felt thick and cozy, like a fleece blanket. She was grateful for the warmth.

The yellow T-shirt man said, "You want me to call nine-one-one? Have them take you to the hospital in Calvert or something? Won't take long for them to get here."

She had no idea where Calvert was, but the last thing she wanted was to check into a hospital, where the staff would probably want to call her mother (not good) and Finn (worse).

"Please," She pleaded, trembling. "I'd just like to get out of here."

Bellamy came over and stood beside her. "I'll take you home."

 _Oh, no_ , Clarke thought, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment. _Somebody else needs to take me. I can't go with him._ She looked at the other two men, but neither one spoke up.

"Come on," Bellamy said, touching her shoulder.

She quickly began walking across the sand. He caught up and then led the way in silence. They went to the far end of the beach, where the dock was, where a house was being built. Three men were on the roof hammering shingles. She followed Bellamy to a dirt parking lot in front of the house and he opened the door of a blue Ford pickup.

"Sorry about the mess," he said as he moved a toolbox, a tape measure, a level, and some pencils off the front seat.

"Tools of the carpenter's trade." The water squished from her clothes as she sat down and a puddle formed on the rubber floor mat below her. Clarke looked down at her feet, covered in a fine layer of sand.

"I don't know what happened out there," She said in a half whisper.

"One minute I was standing on the dock and the next..." She shivered and pulled the jacket collar up around her neck.

Bellamy turned the key and the engine coughed and sputtered and then started. "You're not from around here, are you?" he asked.

The dials on the dashboard came to life and the radio glowed with a warm yellow light.

Clarke shook her head and mumbled, "No."

"The rip currents can get pretty bad out there," Bellamy said. "And that dock isn't in good shape. You're lucky I saw you."

Clarke closed her eyes against the memory of the current and the dock, but even more against the memory of the kiss. An image of Finn floated through her mind—his warm smile, that lock of brown hair that always fell onto his forehead, the little wink he gave her when he liked something, his soft brown eyes, his trusting eyes... She could never tell him what happened.

"Yes, I was very lucky," She agreed.

He looked at her and she noticed that he had a couple of tiny wrinkles on his forehead. His eyebrows were dark, but there were a few flecks of gray in them.

"Thank you," Clarke spoke up. "For saving me."

He glanced through the back window and put the truck in reverse. "Sure." He nodded, shifted into first, and pulled to the end of the dirt lot, by the road. They waited while some cars went by.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

"You were really something out there. Where did you learn to swim like that?" She questioned after an awkward moment of silence.

Bellamy's eyebrows shot up. "That's quite a compliment coming from someone who swam in... what was it? The nationals?"

She knew he had to be teasing her, but there was barely a hint of a smile on his face.

"Oh... yeah, well, that was a while ago," She said as she watched water droplets fall from his hair onto his shirt.

His hair was thick and dark and wavy with a few wisps of gray that only made his overall appearance better. She couldn't help wondering what he would look like in a suit.

"So... were you a lifeguard?" Clarke asked.

He pulled onto the road. "Nope."

"So you learned it..."

"Just around," he said with a shrug, as he reached out to turn on the heater. "Where are you staying?"

Just around? She wondered how someone learned to swim like that just around. She put her hands in front of the heating vent. He probably could have been an Olympic contender if he'd trained for it.

"So you're staying where?" he asked.

"I'm at the Victory Inn," She said, noticing a tiny scar on the side of his nose, just under his left eye.

He nodded. "Paula's place. And you're in town for... how long?"

"Not long," She said. "Not long at all."

"Well, you should get that cut looked at."

"What cut?" She flipped down the visor, but there was no mirror.

He pointed to her face. "Your chin."

Clarke touched her hand to her chin. There was blood.

Bellamy stopped and put on his turn signal. "That could really use a stitch or two. I know a doctor in North Haddam I could take you to—"

She felt a rush of heat in her face and knew her cheeks were bright red. "No, no," she said. "That's not necessary, really." The idea of him taking her to another town to see a doctor was. ..well, unsettling for some reason. She wasn't going to do it.

"I'm sorry about what happened back there," She whispered.

He glanced at me, surprised. "You don't have to apologize. Rip currents are dangerous. It's easy to get into trouble—"

"No, I didn't mean the rip current," I said as he pulled to the side of the road next to the inn. "I meant the other. .." She couldn't say it.

He moved the gearshift to park, sat back in the seat, and ran his hand around the steering wheel. "Well, don't worry," he said with a shrug. "It was only a kiss."

If that was supposed to make Clarke feel better, it didn't.

Now she felt insulted, as though it had had no impact on him at all.

"You know," She blurted out, "people in Maine should keep their docks in better condition." She could hear the edge in her own voice but couldn't stop it. "I might have been seriously injured falling through that thing."

Bellamy looked at her, startled. Finally he said, "I'm glad you weren't injured—a talented swimmer like you. And I'm glad I was there to rescue you."

He flipped down his visor, the late afternoon sun having filled the front seat of the car with a golden hue.

Clarke thought he had to be making fun of her again, but then saw that his expression was serious.

"Of course," he said, smiling now, "one thing people in Maine can do is read. Now if you'd read the sign..."

What was he talking about? People in Maine reading? What sign?

"Of course I can read," She said, feeling even more defensive now, unable to control her strident tone. "I've had four years of college and three years of med school. I've done plenty of reading."

Bellamy picked a piece of seaweed off of the leg of his jeans and tossed it out the window. "Well, maybe you didn't notice it," he said, "but there is a sign there. There's a new house being built. In fact, I'm working on it. And the dock and the house are on the same property. The sign was put up so people would stay off the property." He glanced at her. "Especially the dock."

She looked down again at her sandy feet and the puddle of water surrounding them as she attempted to put the pieces together.

Clarke tried to picture the dock again and the beach. Yes, she could see the sign. White with black lettering. What did it say?

Oh, God, she didn't think it did say NO TRESPASSING. She began to feel queasy. She must not have been paying attention at all.

How could she have just walked right past the sign onto the dock? Now she was mortified.

As a swimmer, she shouldn't have been caught in a riptide, and as a high-powered doctor she shouldn't have been trespassing. Clarke unlocked her seat belt with a loud click. She wasn't going to tell him. She could never admit what she'd done.

The man was obnoxious, detestable, insufferable. She felt the heat behind her eyes and knew she was about to cry. She wasn't going to let him see that.

Clarke opened the car door and jumped out, leaving the seat oozing water.

"Thanks for the ride," She said, trying to sound tough so she wouldn't cry. She slammed the door and started up the front walk to the inn. Then she heard Bellamy calling her.

"Clarke. Hey, Clarke." He was leaning out the passenger window.

His voice sounded serious and his eyes were solemn. There was no trace of that glint she saw when he was teasing her.

 _All right_ , she thought. _Let him say what he wants to say._

She started to walk toward the car.

"Just thought you might be interested," he said. "They're having a sale at Bennett Marine Supply." Now the smile appeared and she saw his eyes light up. "Life jackets are thirty percent off."


End file.
